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This volume,

Number 48

of the Author’s Autograph
Edition, limited to five hundred
copies, is presented to

In grateful appreciation
for cordial support and financial
patronage of the work.

A Veteran of Company F, Eighth Regiment MichiganVolunteer Infantry and afterward assigned as Lieutenant inthe Twenty-eighth U. S. C. T., and for a time an unwillingguest in the Confederate Military prisons at Lynchburg andDanville, Va., Andersonville, Ga., Florence, S. C., and Salisbury, N. C.

Commendation

That the following narrative of Southern prison life should be written somany years after the occurrence of the events described is explained bythe fact that the author has been urged by many friends to put on recordhis descriptions that have interested many people in the East, in theInterior and in the West.

To Members of the Grand Army of the Republic, of the Woman’s Relief Corps,allied organizations, and readers generally, I am glad to commend thisbook as giving a more particular account of the opening of ProvidenceSpring than has before appeared.

Appreciation of the strenuous days of the great Civil War will be revived,and the memories of Veterans, not a few will be refreshed by thisinteresting story.

DEDICATION

Dedicated to the Woman’s Relief Corps, whose tender,
thoughtful care has preserved the
sacred memorials of the war, and
to the memory of my

COMRADES

in arms
who have answered
the final
call; to the age-worn
remnant who still linger
behind, and to the younger
patriots of the present generation,
to whom it is given, in the happier
days of peace, to fight for their country
the bloodless battles of righteousness and truth.

A Personal Foreword

The establishment and perpetuity of our Union have been secured by thesacrifices of war. The Declaration of Independence preceded seven wearyyears of conflict, whose culminating sufferings were experienced in theBritish prison ships and in the winter camp at Valley Forge. In thiscontest the patriotic soldiers of the north and of the south made commoncause, and what they did and what they suffered indicates a measure of theenduring worth of our national life. The story of revolutionary days findsan enlarged counterpart in the sufferings of the civil war.

A phase of the great struggle is recalled in the following narrative ofevents, which belongs to a rapidly receding past. Soon no survivor will beleft to tell the tale; hence the desirability of putting it into permanentform before[Pg 16] it fades altogether from recollection. To some the story ofthe breaking out of Providence Spring may seem to have been given undueprominence in this record; but it is around that event that thesereminiscences gather, and the circumstances attending were so indeliblystamped upon the memory of the writer that they call for expression.Probably he was the youngest of the group of Andersonville prisoners whoparticipated in the concert of prayer that preceded the unsealing of thefountain, and on that account he may be the only survivor.

In the course of the narrative unpleasant things have been referred to inthe interests of truth, but nothing has been set down in malice. The GreatHealer has closed up many wounds of hearts as well as of bodies, and thegrass has grown green over the graves of buried controversies. The boys ingray and the boys in blue now fraternize around common campfires and undera common flag. But while the writer has none save the kindliest feelingstoward his brothers of the lost cause, he cannot[Pg 17] help rejoicing thatalike in the clash of arms, and in the more peaceful conflict of ideaswhich has followed, the principles for which he and others bled andsuffered have gained the victory and are among the things which neverperish from the earth.

CHAPTER I.

The writer of the following narrative feels justified in calling attentionto his military record in order that he may be furnished with a warrantfor inviting the attention of readers to the matters herein described.Broadly speaking, his record is that he saw nearly four years of activeservice, including ten months of confinement in Confederate prisons andthree months in hospitals and parole camps.

Given more in detail it would be as follows: He enlisted at the age ofseventeen, on September 2, 1861, at Hastings in the Eighth RegimentMichigan Volunteer Infantry; Company F of which N. H. Walbridge wasCaptain; Traverse Phillips, First Lieutenant; Jacob Maus, SecondLieutenant, and John D. Sumner, Orderly Sergeant.

[Pg 20]The Eighth was known as the famous “wandering” regiment ofMichigan—ex-Governor Col. William M. Fenton, Commander.

His regiment was mustered in at Grand Rapids and journeyed via Detroit,Cleveland and Pittsburg to Washington, going into camp on Meridian Hilloverlooking the capitol. On October 19th, with his regiment, he embarkedfrom Annapolis on the steamship Vanderbilt, taking part in the DupontExpedition to the South Carolina coast and occupancy of Beaufort and theSea Islands.

He was in engagements on Coosaw river, and at the bombardment of FortPaluski off Savannah. While his regiment was in the campaign of JamesIsland, near Charleston, he was in the Signal Corps service on theBeaufort river. In April the regiment sailed to Virginia; he was at thesecond Bull-Run in July, and with the Maryland campaign of South Mountain,Antietam; the succeeding Fredericksburg fighting[Pg 21] and thence via Kentuckyto Vicksburg and Jackson, Mississippi.

In the autumn of ’63 he marched via Cumberland Gap to East Tennessee andtook part in conflicts at Blue Springs, Lenoir Station, Campbell’sStation, the siege of Knoxville, and defense of Fort Saunders. Afterre-enlistment with his comrades in January he marched over the mountainsnearly two hundred miles in ten days through deep snow to the railroad atCrab Orchard, Kentucky. This severe ordeal was followed by a brief respiteof a thirty days’ furlough from Cincinnati to Michigan.

In April, 1864, the regiment rejoined the Ninth Army Corps at Annapolis,and on May 3rd he was, after examination in Washington, confirmed for acommission as Lieutenant. On the 4th, he overtook his regiment campingnear the Rappahannock river; on the evening of the 5th the vicinity of theRapidan river was reached in full view of the smoke of Sedgwick’sartillery opening the great battle of the Wilderness. On the afternoon ofthe 6th, his regiment[Pg 22] was ordered into action when he with a thousandothers from the division was taken prisoner and marched to Lee’sheadquarters, where he saw the famous general, whom he remembers assitting with great dignity of bearing upon his horse, calmly viewing thesituation. And it was reported that he kindly remarked to a group ofprisoners that they must make the best of their predicament. On the 9ththe examination papers came for the new Lieutenant, but he was now theguest of the Confederacy and could not be excused.

A comrade sent to his home the disquieting message, “missing in action andprobably killed,” but happily from Orange Courthouse by the great kindnessof a Virginia Lieutenant a telegram was forwarded by flag of truce to hisparents stating that he still survived. The memorial services announcedfor the following week were postponed and are yet to take place.

Introductory experiences as a prisoner of war included many hours offasting, followed by a most exhaustive[Pg 23] march of twenty-eight miles toOrange Courthouse under close cavalry guard; thence by rail toGordonsville, where the place of detention was a pen frequently used forthe rounding up of cattle. At this point the prisoners were usuallyrelieved of any superfluous clothing and outfit.

Fortunately the writer had discovered in the crowd five members of hisregiment. He and they drew together as companions in misfortune, andformed a group in which each one was to have a share and share alike ofall they possessed; and they entered into a solemn pledge to care for oneanother in sickness.

Very early in the morning of our night at Gordonville we were aroused bythe sharp command, “Wake up there, wake up there, you Yanks. Fall into tworanks. Quick there,” given by a Confederate sergeant. The occasion was thearrival of a trainload of beef cattle for the Confederate army, and themaster of transportation saw an opportunity to load the prisoners intothe[Pg 24] freight cars just made vacant and which were to return to Lynchburgimmediately.

To be thus unceremoniously aroused from sleep and hustled into filthy carsmade us very indignant, but “There is a divinity that shapes our ends;rough-hew them how we will,” and in the confusion of moving in thetwilight, and the absence of inspection we got off scot free from theusual ceremony of being stripped of superabundant clothes andaccouterments. Thus our group of six were each left in possession of ablanket, a section of shelter tent, a haversack, a tin cup and plate, aknife, a fork, a spoon, and such scanty clothing as we had on. The extraswe possessed were a frying pan, a file, and several pocket knives, two orthree towels, a small mirror, and a thin piece of mottled soap. The latterwas used exclusively for a Sunday morning wash of hands and face until itmelted away.

This unusual amount of equipment was kept as inconspicuous as possible andwas safely carried through the prisons[Pg 25] at Lynchburg and Danville, wherewe awaited transportation to an unknown destination, which proved to bethe military inferno of Andersonville, in southwestern Georgia, to reachwhich we rode more than seven hundred miles from the battlefield packedfifty and sixty in a freight car, with twenty or thirty of our number onthe top.

The locomotives, which burned pitch pine, emitted clouds of acrid smokethat, mingled with dust arising from the roadbed, enveloped the train in agloomy, suffocating pall. Mile after mile the worn, rattling freight carsand wheezing engine crept along the right-of-way, which, as a narrow lane,threaded the interminable pitch-pine forests that admitted no stirringbreeze.

On Sunday morning we arrived in the beautiful city of Augusta, Georgia.Our train was sidetracked on a principal thoroughfare whose borders wereembowered in luxuriant foliage which screened attractive homes, whence thechurch bells were calling the summer-dressed occupants. On the sidewalk[Pg 26]opposite from the train groups of the people loitered to gaze upon thegrimy, famished prisoners who swarmed upon the tops of the freight carsand formed a sweltering crowd within.

Several ladies deferred their church-going, re-entered their houses,emerged with baskets filled with sandwiches, crossed the street to theside of the train and, overcoming the objections of the guards, handed outthe precious food to the grateful men, who responded with their mostcourteous thanks.

This little piece of genuine chivalry was the one bright spot in thetorturing journey, and was matched by the sensibilities of some Southernladies, who later viewing the interior of Andersonville from the stockadeplatform, turned away their faces weeping.

Description: Fig. 1, Keeper’s House; 2, “P. Spring”; 3, Nat’l Monument; 4,Purchased Property; 5, Stockade; 6, Outer Stockade; 7, Deadline; 8, Fortsand Batteries; 9, Main Fort; 10,[1]Gallows; 11, Magazine; 12, Capt. Wirtz’Headquarters; 13, To Cemetery; 14, Wells and Tunnels; 15, Dead House; 16,Guard Camp; 17, Road to Station; 18, Creek; 19, North Gate; 20, South Gate; 21, Flag Pole.

This view looks westward. Providence Spring was located just below the north gate, close to the stockade X.

CHAPTER II.

At the time of our incarceration in Andersonville, the crisis of the warof the rebellion was reached. General Grant was fighting the great battlesof the Wilderness in Virginia; the investment of Petersburg was about tobegin, and General Lee was resisting the impact of the Federal forces withunsurpassed skill and heroism. General Sherman was also hastening hispreparations to penetrate the vitals of the Confederacy by his famous“March to the Sea.”

Skirmishes by the contending forces were of daily occurrence, andfrequently battles were fought that now loom large in history. To bury thedead was not difficult; but the care of the wounded was a grave concern toboth armies. An affair of still greater magnitude was the gathering up ofthe captured officers[Pg 28] and soldiers, the transporting of them hundreds ofmiles, and the placing of them in prisons for safe keeping.

The Confederate authorities adopted a simple and logical plan. Foodstuffsfor their armies could not be gathered in war-swept Virginia, nor to anygreat extent from the border States. In Georgia and Alabama, in parts ofthe Carolinas, Mississippi and Louisiana faithful slave labor produced anabundant supply of rice, corn and bacon, sweet potatoes and beans.

To transport these bulky materials to the armies of Lee, Hood and Johnsonrequired every locomotive and freight car that could be mustered onSouthern railroads. Hence the northward-bound trains were heavily laden.Those going southward were empty, and were available to carry away thethousands of Union prisoners. At several points in the South Atlantic andGulf States, stockade prisons were set up, notably that in SouthwesternGeorgia, named after an adjacent hamlet, “Andersonville.”

[Pg 29]This celebrated place of confinement for Federal prisoners below the rankof commissioned officer was located about sixty-two miles from Macon. Itconsisted of a stockade made of pine logs twenty-five feet long, setupright in a trench five feet deep, inclosing some sixteen acres,afterwards enlarged to twenty-six acres.

This inclosure was oblong in form, with its longest dimension in a generalnorth and south direction, and had two gates in its western side, near thenorth and south ends respectively. It was commanded by several stands ofartillery, comprising sixteen guns, located at a distance on risingground. From four directions the guns could sweep the prison interior withgrapeshot or shells.

A line of poles was planted along the lengthwise center of the pen. Wewere informed that if the men gathered in unusual crowds between the rangeof the poles and the north and south gates, the cannon would open upon us.

A report was circulated among us to the effect that General Sherman had[Pg 30]started an expedition to release us; and we were informed that if histroops approached within seven miles of the stockade the prisoners wouldbe mowed down by grapeshot. The fact is that one of his generals proposeda sortie that never was made. “About July 20, 1864, General Stoneman wasauthorized at his own desire to march (with cavalry) on Macon andAndersonville in an effort to rescue the National prisoners of war in themilitary prisons there.”

Outside and against the stockade platforms for guards were placed two orthree rods apart, and were so constructed that the sentinel climbed aladder and stood waist high above the top of the wall and under a boardroof, which sheltered him from the sun and rain.

Each of the guards faced the vast mass of prisoners and was ordered toclosely watch the dead line before and below him half way to his comradeon his right and left.

The “dead line” formed a complete circuit parallel to the inside of the[Pg 31]stockade and about twenty feet therefrom. It consisted of a narrow stripof board nailed to a row of stakes, which were about four feet high.“Shoot any prisoner who touches the “dead line” was the standing order tothe guards. Several companies from Georgia regiments were detailed for theduty, and their muskets were loaded with “buck and ball” (i. e., a largebullet and two buckshot). The day guard at the stockade consisted of onehundred and eighty-six men; the day reserve of eighty-six men. The nightreserve consisted of one hundred and ten men; the outlay pickets ofthirty-eight men.

A sick prisoner inadvertently placing his hand on the dead line forsupport, or one who was “moon blind” running against it, or anyonetouching it with suicidal intent, would be instantly shot at, thescattering balls usually striking others than the one aimed at.

The intervening space between the wall and the dead line was overgrownwith weeds, and was occasionally tested by workmen with long drills toascertain[Pg 32] the existence of tunnels. In attempting to escape by this meansthe prisoners endeavored to emerge at night some distance from thestockade and take to the woods. To frustrate such attempts, which wouldinevitably be discovered at roll-call the following morning, man-trackinghounds were led by mounted men on a wide circuit around the prison, withthe well-nigh universal result that the trail was struck and the fugitivetaken.

Later a stockade was erected parallel to the first, and some ten or twelverods beyond. Tunnels could not be carried so far with the means available.They were dug with knives and the dirt was taken out in haversacks or bagsdrawn in and out by a cord. The work of digging was usually carried on atnight. During the day a sick man lay over the tunnel’s mouth in a tent orunder a blanket. That the roll-call sergeant might not discover the freshearth, it was sifted early in the morning from the pocket and down thetrouser leg of a comrade, who walked unconcernedly[Pg 33] about. The littlegrains of earth which he dropped were soon trodden under foot.

To increase the difficulty of tunnel escape, slaves and teams wereemployed to build piles of pitch-pine along the cleared space beyond theouter stockade. At night, when these were lighted, a line of fires wasmade which illuminated a wide area. From these fires arose columns ofdense smoke, which in the sultry air of a midsummer night hung like a pallover the silent city of disease and starvation. Yet the city was notwholly quiet, for undertones of thousands of voices that murmured duringthe day at night died away into the low moans of the sick and theexpiring, or rose into the overtones of the outcry of distressful dreams.In the edge of the gloom beyond the fires, patrols paced to and fro untilthe dawn. Every evening the watch-call sounded, “Post number one, nineo’clock and all is well.” This cry was repeated by each sentinel until ithad traveled around the stockade back to the place of starting. “Nine anda[Pg 34] half o’clock and all is well,” was next spoken, and likewise repeated.Thus every half hour from dark to daylight the time was called off, andthis grim challenge greeted our ears every night until the survivors badethe Confederacy good-bye. Not that our captors benevolently wished toincrease the sense of the shortness of the time until our release, but tobe assured that the guards were keeping awake.

CHAPTER III.

The least that can be said of the prison sustenance is that it wasexceedingly slim. But while theper diem rations dealt out to anAndersonville prisoner were too small for proper maintenance, and much ofthe time inferior in quality, yet the thirty-two thousand to thirty-fivethousand men who had to be fed were as a rule promptly served.

To secure this result effective organization was necessary. It wasaccomplished as follows: Groups of two hundred and seventy men were nameddetachments and duly numbered. Every detachment was divided into thefirst, second and third nineties, each of which was in charge of one ofour own sergeants. The nineties, in turn, were divided into the first,second and third[Pg 36] thirties, which also were in charge of a sergeant orcorporal.

At ten o’clock every forenoon a drum call was beaten from the platform atthe south gate. At this signal the prisoners fell into line bydetachments, forming as best they could in the narrow paths that separatedthe small tents, blanket shanties or dug-outs. At the same moment acompany of Confederate sergeants entered the two gates for the purpose ofcounting and recording the number of the prisoners. To each of theseofficers a certain number of detachments were assigned. The men,unsheltered from the fierce sun-heat, had perforce to remain standingduring the entire count. If a number less than that of yesterday was inevidence, the Federal sergeant had to account for the deficit. Sometimes anumber of men were too ill to stand up, so the line was held the longerwhile the Confederate official viewed the sick where they lay.

The bodies of those who had died since the count of the previous day wereearly in the morning carried to the[Pg 37] south street and laid in a row untilthe ration wagon could haul them to the burying trench. On a card attachedto the wrist of the deceased was written by the detachment sergeant, hisname, regiment and date of death. These names were taken by theenumerator, who verified the record as the bodies were carried through thegate. Such was the scarcity of clothing that garments of any value weretaken by comrades from the dead before interment.

In the early summer prisoners were occasionally detailed under guard tocarry the dead some distance from the gate. On the return they wereallowed to gather up chips which had accumulated from the hewing ofstockade timbers. The quantity a man, weakened by hunger and disease,could bring in would sell for five dollars, U. S. currency. Competition toget out on one of these details became so intense that the privilege wasdiscontinued.

At four o’clock in the afternoon rations of corn bread and bacon wereissued on the basis of the morning count[Pg 38] of those who are able to standup. Two army wagons drawn by mules entered the north and south gatessimultaneously. They were piled high with bread, thin loaves of corn breador Johnny cake, made of coarse meal and water by our men who had beenparoled for that work.

A blanket was spread upon the ground and the quantity for a detachment wasplaced thereon in three piles; one for every ninety, according to thenumber of men able to eat. In like manner the sergeants of ninetiessub-divided the piles to the thirties.

The writer had charge of a division of thirty and distributed as follows:His blanket was spread in front of his shelter tent and on it he spreadthe bread in as many pieces as there were men counted in the morning.

Each man had his number and was intently watching the comparative size ofthe portions. “Sergeant,” cries one, pointing to a cube of bread, “Thatpiece is smaller than the one next to it.” A crumb is taken from the oneand placed[Pg 39] upon the other. The relative size of any piece may bechallenged by any member of the thirty, for his life is involved.

The equalization is finally completed to the satisfaction of all. Thesergeant then takes up a piece in his hand and says, “Whose is this?” Adesignated comrade looking the other way calls a number. The owner stepsup and takes his portion. This process is repeated until all are served.Some four or five pounds of bacon are then cut on a board into smallpieces and issued in like manner.

The cube of bread and morsel of meat constitute the ration for twenty-fourhours. One-half may be eaten at once; the remainder should be put in thehaversack for breakfast. If any one yields to his insatiable hunger andeats the whole for supper he has to fast until the following evening andmust then deny himself and put away the portion for the next morning’sbreakfast. Experiment proved that strength was better sustained by takingthe scanty ration of[Pg 40] food in two portions than by eating the whole atonce.

When the number of prisoners exceeded fifteen thousand, the facilities ofthe cook-house were inadequate. Therefore raw rations were issuedalternately every two weeks to each side of the prison. In this form theamountper capita daily was a scant pint of corn meal and a scrap ofuncooked bacon.

Occasionally boiled rice and cow beans were substituted for the meal, butthese were very difficult to issue in accurate portions. Sometimes aquantity of this glutenous food was carried in a sleeve of a shirt or inthe trouser’s leg tied at the end.

The supply of fuel for cooking was wholly inadequate. Often the ration ofwood was ironically called a “toothpick.” It would be split into smallshort splinters and two men would sometimes combine their portions. Waterin a quart tin cup setting on small blocks of clay could be brought to aboil before the wood under it was consumed. Into this water meal was[Pg 41]stirred and, if the blaze could be yet further economized, partiallycooked mush was the outcome. The sick could not, however, do this work forthemselves. Many ate meal uncooked, but the experiment soon ended life.

It may be observed that many of the Andersonville prisoners were wellsupplied with money. The Federal armies were reclothed and paid off in thespring of 1864. The new recruits and re-enlisted veterans, in manyinstances, had with them bounty money when captured. Greenbacks could bepressed into the sole of a shoe, or placed inside a brass button. Invarious ways money was concealed about the person.

The authorities at Andersonville allowed supplies to be sold to theprisoners for Federal money. Numerous small restaurants flourished in thestockade. From small clay ovens they supplied fresh bread and baked meats.Irish and sweet potatoes, string beans, peas, tomatoes, melons, sweetcorn, and other garden products were abundantly offered for sale. Newarrivals were[Pg 42] amazed to find these resources in the midst of utterdestitution and starvation.

As this sketch is of the nature of personal experiences, the writer mighttell how, in his case, the question of increasing the food supply wassolved. A ration of fresh beef received by his thirty consisted of a shankbone on which a small amount of lean meat remained. This latter was cutinto portions about the size of a little finger. These were easily issued,but what shall be done with the bone which towered on the meat board abovethe diminutive strips of beef? No tools were available by which it couldbe broken up. One and another cried out, “I don’t want the bone for aration.” “Count it out for me.” “I can’t gnaw a bone.” The writer knewthat a wealth of nutriment was contained in the rich marrow and oil-filledjoints, and in view of the unanimous rejection of the bone, said, “Well,boys, if none of you want it, I will take it as my portion.” “Agreed,”shouted the crowd, adding expressions[Pg 43] like these, “Come, hurry up andcall off that meat; I’m hungry.” The strips were speedily issued, and, forthe most part, eaten at once.

The fortunate possessor of what was a large soup bone borrowed from acomrade a kitchen knife with permission to cut on the back of the sameteeth, which were made with a file procured from a tent-mate. The steel ofthe blade was exceedingly hard and by the time the teeth were finished thefile was worn nearly smooth. However, this fact insured that the teethwould hold their edge. The bone was quickly cut in two and the marrow dugout with a splinter. What remained was melted out with boiling water and amarrow soup was prepared for six hungry patriots. Next, the joints weresawed into slices and the rich oil extracted therefrom with hot water.Thus for two meals a generous addition was made to our impoverished menu.

Soon after, while splitting wood by driving the knife into the end of astick, the blade was snapped off about one[Pg 44] and one-half inches from thehandle. This disaster brought consternation, for the owner valued hisknife at five dollars. However, a settlement was effected by which theuser retained the broken parts and the worn-out file. The blade was setinto a split stick to be used as a saw, as circumstances might require.

The broken end of the shank was scraped on a brick to form a beveled edgelike a chisel. Later on, the fact was demonstrated that these tools were aprovidential preparation. The face of the writer became diseased with themuch prevailing scurvy. A swollen cheek, inflamed and bleeding gums withloosening teeth, indicated the fact that a hard fight for life must be putup. How shall it be done? About this time a stockade was built on threesides of an enclosure attached to the north end of the prison, thus makingmore room for the thousands of additional prisoners who were constantlyarriving from many battle fields. The intervening wall was taken up andmost of the timber sold to the prisoners. From one[Pg 45] who had purchased alog, the writer obtained the wood sufficient to make three water pails;working on a two-thirds share.

This material was delivered to the writer in split strips about threeinches thick and four feet long. With the knife-blade saw these sticks ofhard pine were slowly and laboriously cut into lengths for staves whichwere split on a curve by driving together several sharp-pointed wedgesinto a circular grain of the wood. Thus each stave was an arc of thecircumference of the tree. A day’s ration was traded for a board threeinches wide and thirty inches long. A mortise was cut through this toreceive the knife-chisel, which was held in place with a forked wedgeafter the manner of a carpenter’s plane.

This was the jointer on which the edges of the staves were smoothed andits upper end was placed on the knee of the writer, who sat tailor fashionon the ground, and the lower end was placed in a hole in the earth. Thepieces for the bottom of the pail were split flat[Pg 46] across the circulargrain of the tree, and the edges were also smoothed on the jointer. Forthe want of truss hoops, the problem of setting up the staves seemedinsurmountable. A sleepless night was passed in thinking the matterthrough. At four o’clock in the morning the inspiration came, and thesolution was: Dig a hole in the ground the form and slope of theprospective pail. This was speedily done, and the staves were successfullyset half their length in this mold, and the last one driven home broughtthe whole into shape. Two knapsack straps were passed around the top ofthe pail and held it together. It was then carefully drawn out of the holeand hoops made of split saplings were put in place, and the handle of likematerial was made. Precious food was bartered for these split stems, andthe resultant fasting added to prevailing starvation nearly cost thewriter his life.

Pieces for the bottom were jointed, placed on the ground and on them thepail was set. A pencil was run round[Pg 47] on this bottom and the end of eachpiece was cut with saw and chisel wherever the curved mark indicated.

Days of incessant labor with chisel and a borrowed jackknife sufficed toproduce from hard pitch pine the staves for the sides and bottom of awater pail of the ordinary size.

When at last the pail was completed so imperfect were the joints that mealcould be sifted through. Derisive laughter greeted the apparent failure ofa pail to hold water, through the joints of which the light freely shone.However, the maker depended on the dry wood of the staves swelling tightif only the hoops proved strong enough to stand the immense pressure.Happily, this resulted and in triumph the first made pail was handed overto the owner of the log in payment for the wood from which three pailscould be made.

The second pail was more speedily made and sold for $1.50 with which theproprietor bought vegetables which eaten raw cured the scurvy in his face.

During the following winter which[Pg 48] was passed in the Confederate prison atFlorence, South Carolina, the shoes worn by the most of our group, owingto defective machine stitching, peeled from the toe to the heel, causingalmost constantly damp feet, to the serious detriment of health.

Again the writer was obliged to make a fight for life. Recalling theprocess of making his chisel, he scraped, on a brick, the shank of hisworn-out file into a point like a pegging awl. A gum tree knot served as ahandle. A two-inch nut from a car bolt was screwed to a handle for a shoehammer. A piece of soft pine was whittled into a last. With the knife-sawmaple chips were cut into right lengths for shoe pegs which were shapedone by one. With this equipment the loosened soles were tightly pegged tothe uppers. The shoes thus made water tight contributed no little to ourchances of survival.

The writer afterwards mended shoes for one of the wood-chopping party whosecured, of field negroes, sweet potatoes which he brought with theworking[Pg 49] squad into the prison at evening, and with them paid for themending. These were cooked by the writer and retailed to the prisonerswith large profit in U. S. fractional currency.

Confederate money was secretly purchased forty dollars for one, and withthis supplies could be lawfully bought of the prison sutler. Bread persmall loaf, flour per pound, and a fair-sized cabbage could be bought eachfor ten dollars. We drove a flourishing trade in hot cabbage soup with menwho possessed any money; especially to those who, without shelter,literally piled themselves together for mutual warmth during the piercingcold and rain of a southern winter night.

The soup was made in the following manner: A cabbage consisted of a stalkwith a tuft of leaves on the upper end and a bunch of roots on the lowerend. The whole was washed clean and chopped up fine with the knife-chisel.The sliced leaves, stem and roots were boiled in eight quarts of wateruntil made as tender as heat could do it. Into[Pg 50] the green colored liquidwas stirred some flour thickening; the whole was salted and a minced redpepper was added for pungency, while a whole pepper floated on the surfaceas an advertisement.

For a soup dipper a piece of pail hoop was riveted to the side of acondensed milk can, the two rivets being cut from a copper cent with thechisel driven with the shoe hammer. For soup plates a canteen was meltedapart and the two halves formed each a plate. On[2]Market Square, down bythe swamp, four slender stakes were driven and thereon was placed a pineshake, which formed the soup counter. The soup kettle was covered with apiece of woolen shirt, which kept in the heat. Very early each morning weopened up for business and a line of shivering men in rags and nearlyperished from exposure formed as the soup brigade. The price per plate[Pg 51]was a five-cent shinplaster of U. S. fractional currency. The poor fellowwho had no money must needs go without. As new prisoners ceased to arrivethe money supply was soon gathered up and the prison sutler went away andtrade was brought to an end.

Our last plate of soup was sold to a Maine soldier who paid for it hislast five cents. He was nearly naked and incessantly shivered from thecold. The writer found him the following morning, after a night of rain,to which he was exposed, with his knees drawn up[Pg 52] to his chin in theinstinctive effort to bring the surfaces of his body together for warmth.With difficulty his frame was straightened out for burial.

The profit of this business for several weeks gave to our group of six onefairly good meal each day and made possible the survival of those of ournumber who finally emerged from this awful prison life.

CHAPTER IV.

If the food supply of Andersonville was bad, the water supply was worse.To understand the situation and to see how little was done to overcome thedifficulties involved, and to make the most of the existing facilities forthe relief of the suffering, one has to consider the formation of thisprison encampment.

The surface of the interior consisted of two hillsides, slopingrespectively north and south towards the center which was occupied by aswamp of nearly four acres. This was traversed by a sluggish creek whichwas some five feet wide and six inches deep, and made its way along thefoot of the south slope. Up the stream were located the headquarters ofCapt. Wirtz, the camps of the Confederate artillery and infantry and thecook-house for the prisoners.[Pg 54] The drainage of these localities enteredthe creek which flowed into the prison through spaces between the stockadetimbers, and polluted the water which was the chief supply of the prison,and which, at midnight, in its clearest condition, was the color of amber.The intervening space at the foot of the north hill was a wide morass, andwhen overflowed by rains became a vast cesspool on which boundless swarmsof flies settled down and laid their eggs; which were speedily hatched bythe fervent heat of the nearly tropical sun, and became a horribleundulating mass. On a change of wind the odor could be detected milesaway; indeed it was reported that the people of Macon petitioned GeneralHowell Cobb, the military governor of Georgia, for a removal of the prisonlocated sixty miles away, lest an awful pestilence sweep over theircountry!

The turkey buzzards, birds of ill omen, would come up against the wind,alight on the bare limbs of the tall pines overlooking the prison, andcircle over the[Pg 55] grizzled city as if waiting to descend for a carrionfeast.

When we entered the prison on May 23rd, our detachment of two hundred andseventy men was scheduled fifty-five, indicating the presence of fourteenthousand eight hundred and fifty prisoners. The number steadily rose untila reported thirty-five thousand were present at one time. As the arrivalsincreased by hundreds and thousands, the daily mortality was counted byscores and hundreds, and many of the sick were without shelter from theheat of the pitiless sun.

As the killed and wounded are scattered over the fields of the sanguinarybattle, so our dying sick lay around on every hand. In the early summer,Capt. Wirtz issued to the prisoners picks and shovels, with which to digwells for increased water supply. From some of these wells the men startedtunnels through which to escape. Discovering this, the commander withdrewthe tools, and ordered the wells to be filled up. Permission to keep oneof them open[Pg 56] was purchased by a group of prisoners. It was sunk to anecessary depth, covered with a platform and trap door, and supplied aboutone thousand men.

Aside from this well, for the favored few, the only water supply was fromabout twelve feet of the length of the creek which reached between thedead-line and the bridge connecting the two divisions of the prison. Aterrible water famine set in, with the result that many of the ailing onesbecame insane from thirst.

In these unsanitary surroundings there is a well authenticated case of aman who was severely afflicted with scurvy. As he lay in the place offilth and stench, without medical attention until gangrene of the lowerlimbs set in, he realized that to save his life he must lose his feet. Noone of his comrades had the nerve to perform the necessary operation, sohe obtained an old knife and disjointed his pedal extremities.

“In November, 1863, an order was issued for the establishment of aprison in Georgia, the granary of the eastern part of theConfederacy,[Pg 57] and for this purpose a tract of land was selected nearthe town of Andersonville. A stockade 15 feet high, inclosing 16½acres, was built, and this, in June, 1864, was enlarged to 26½acres, but 3¼ acres near the center were too marshy to be used. Asmall stream ran through the inclosure, which, it was thought, wouldfurnish water sufficient for drinking and for bathing. The treeswithin the stockade were cut down and no shelter was provided for theexpected inmates, who began to arrive in February, 1864, before therude prison was completed according to the design, and before anadequate supply of bacon for their use had been received. Prisonerscontinued to come until, on the 5th of May, there were about 12,000,which number went on increasing until in August it exceeded 32,000.Their condition was one of extreme wretchedness. Those who came firsterected rude shelters from the debris of the stockade; later arrivalsburrowed in the ground or protected themselves with any blankets orpieces of cloth of which they had not been deprived according to thepractice of robbing men who were taken prisoners which prevailed onboth sides. Through an unfortunate location of the baking and cookinghouses on the creek above the stockade the water became pollutedbefore it reached the prisoners, so that to obtain pure water theymust dig wells.After a severe storm a spring broke out within theinclosure, and this became one of the main[Pg 58]reliances for drinkingwater. The sinks were constructed over the lower part of the stream,but the current was not swift enough to carry away the ordure, andwhen the stream was swollen by rain and overflowed, the foecal matterwas deposited over a wide area, producing a horrible stench. This wasthe famous prison of Andersonville.”—From Rhodes’ History of theUnited States, Vol. V, pp. 483-515.

“The history of Andersonville prison pen has shocked the world withits tales of horror, of woe, and of death, before unheard of andunknown to civilization. No pen can describe, no artist can paint, noimagination comprehend their fearful and unutterable sufferings.

“Into the narrow confines of this prison were herded more thanthirty-five thousand enlisted men, whose only fault was they ‘wore theUnion blue,’ many of them the bravest and best, the most devoted andheroic of those grand armies that carried the flag of the Union tofinal victory. For long and weary months they suffered and died forthat flag. Here they sufferedunsheltered from the burning rays of asouthern sun, or were drenched by the rain and deadly dews of thenight. All this while they were in every stage of physicaldisease—hungered, emaciated, starving.

“Is it a wonder that during the month of August, 1864, one man died inevery eleven minutes, night and day, or that, for six months,beginning April, 1864, one died every twenty-two[Pg 59] and one-half minutesnight and day? This should forever silence the assertion that menwould be taken prisoners rather than risk their lives on the firingline. The lack of water was the cause of much disease and suffering.Under the most favorable circumstances the water supply wasinsufficient for one-quarter of the number of men confined there. Allthe water obtainable was from a sluggish creek that ran through thegrounds; and, in addition to this, there were thirty-six hundred menacting as guards camped on the bank of this stream before it reachedthe prison pen, and the water became so foul no words can describeit.”—From “A Sketch of Andersonville,” by Mrs. Lizabeth A. Turner,Chairman Andersonville Prison Board. Journal of the Twenty-fifthNational Convention of the Woman’s Relief Corps, page 169.

CHAPTER V.

The bitter cry which arose from the suffering camp was changed on the lipsof a few to an appeal to heaven. Where else could men look in their direextremity? One evening early in August the sound of the old long metredoxology was heard from the voices of a group of men gathered around thesolitary pine stump in the enclosure, which was situated at the end of thenorth street of the prison where space was left for the ration wagon toturn around. On this stump was seated an emaciated cavalry sergeant, Mr.Shepard, of Columbus, Ohio, formerly an honored preacher of the gospel. Indays past he had frequently been called upon to offer prayer over theremains of some deceased comrade, and now he led in the old and well-knownhymn to call like-minded souls together.

[Pg 62]Some twenty-five unkempt, starving men gathered around him and joined inthe familiar strain. What memories of family worship and old-time servicesin the meeting-house those words called up. Said Brother Shepard insubstance: “I have today read in the book of Numbers of Moses striking therock from which water gushed out for the ample supply of man and beast. Itell you God must strike a rock in Andersonville or we shall all die ofthirst. And if there is no rock here, He can smite the ground and bringforth water to supply our desperate needs. Of this I am sure; let us askHim to do this.”

Pointing to an uncombed, unwashed, ragged comrade standing close by, hesaid, “Will the brother from Chicago pray?” He then successively called onother acquaintances, distinguishing them by their different localities athome. All the prayers were poured out in the one desire for water.

For perhaps an hour the meeting continued and closed with the doxology.The words of the leader were, “Boys,[Pg 63] when you awake during the nightoffer to God a little prayer for water. Do the same many times tomorrow,and let us meet here in the evening to pray again for water.”

If memory be not at fault, these individual and collective petitions weresteadfastly offered from Monday evening to Thursday evening.

For a month previous we had noticed that a number of the stockade timbersnear the north gate had been loosened by the percolating of the copiousrain and that they were sagging considerably and had settled out of line.We wondered why they had been allowed to remain so long in this unsafecondition. Was it a coincidence that after prayer began to be offered thequartermaster of the prison notified Capt. Wirtz that stockade timberswere out of line and should be set right? He was ordered to take a gang ofslaves and make the necessary repairs. About fifteen stalwart negroes weremarched through the main gate and turned into the twenty-foot spacebetween the dead-line and[Pg 64] the wall. With pike poles the closely adjoiningposts were heaved into position and the earth was closely tamped.

Then the workers faced about and commenced digging a trench up the hillnearly as wide as the space between the dead-line and the stockade. A partof the gang swung their picks into the red clay which was shoveled againstthe timbers. Another set followed with heavy rammers and pounded the wholeinto a smooth, sloping surface which was tamped closely to the base of thewooden wall, making a perfect watershed, and thus preventing the furtherloosening of the earth at the base of the stockade. By Thursday eveningthe broad trench with rounded bottom was completed from the swamp up thedead line space to the north gate.

CHAPTER VI.

On Friday morning an ominous stillness pervaded nature. By the middle ofthe forenoon a dense, dark cloud was noticed in the southwest quarter ofthe horizon, slowly creeping upward. It rose above the treetops majesticand awful in appearance. A troop of small, scurrying, angry-looking cloudsseemed to form an advancing line to the vast mass of storm cloud. Theonward movement quickened, and soon the front of the mountain ofapproaching cloud assumed a gray appearance, caused by the mighty downpourof water which more nearly than anything else seemed a continuouscloudburst.

Crashes of thunder broke over our heads and flashes of lightning swishedaround us as if the air was filled with short circuits. The awful movingwall[Pg 66] came towards us rapidly and we understood what was happening.

As the mighty deluge swept through the clearing west of the prison, webowed our heads in preparation of submersion in the advancing waterspout.When it came upon us the sensation was as if a million buckets of waterwere being poured upon us at once. The air was so filled with the roaring,hissing flood that we could not look up, but bent forward to protect ourfaces, covering our nostrils with our hands to preserve a little breathingspace.

Instantly rivulets of water poured down over our bodies as if a hose weredischarging its stream on our shoulders, and the surface of the filthyground was soon covered with a rush of muddy water. The swamp space asquickly filled with great swirling eddies. The upper stockade served as adam across the creek, which in a few minutes became swollen into thedimensions of a river. Driftwood bore down upon the stockade, causing itto give way with a mighty crash. The heavy timbers were whirled[Pg 67] acrossthe prison as if they were mere straws, and by the force of their impactcarried away the rear stockade. From the batteries solid shot was firedover our heads to warn us that if we attempted to escape through theopening in the wall we would be swept by the cannon. The roar of the gunschimed harmoniously with the thundering of the storm. In the awfulsuspense of such overwhelming conditions the progress of time could not bemeasured. The downpour may have continued twenty minutes, perhaps half anhour, or possibly longer. So great was its fury that we felt it must soonend or it would end us. Fortunately, it ceased as suddenly as it came.Looking up, we saw the great water wall retreating. The sun burst forthwith unwonted vigor and shone with brilliant effect upon the recedingrain. A dense fog arose from the drying garments of thirty-five thousandhuman bodies and from the exhalations of surrounding surfaces. As theheavy mist cleared away, the drenched and forlorn prisoners tried to bemerry. They[Pg 68] viewed with complacency the breach in the walls of theinfamous pen and wished that every timber had been leveled to the earth.

A witty comrade on the south hill of the prison, thinking to conveydesired information to the north side, shouted at the top of his voice,“Water! Water!” Men on the north side, as by a common impulse, answeredback, and the two great companies in turn shouted the magic word, much asthe opposite hosts on Ebal and Gerazim alternately responded, “Amen.”

Immediately after this antiphonal outburst a voice was heard from thenorth gate, ringing out in clear tones the thrilling words, “A spring! Aspring! A spring has broken out!” “Where, where?” was the eager inquirywhich arose at once from many lips. The writer tried to press his waytowards the north gate, but the crowd was so dense that no progress couldbe made. The excitement of the moment was indescribable. During a lullsome one sang out, “You fellows over by the[Pg 69] north gate, tell us, has aspring broken out?” “Yes,” was the reply, an emphatic “Yes.” Then wasfurther shouted the explanation, “Where the trench was dug the flood hastorn up the earth and a spring has gushed out.”

As soon as opportunity afforded we pressed our way to the spot, and there,just below the north gate, in the center of the space between the stockadeand the dead-line, at the point where the earth had been most deeplyexcavated, the sloping surfaces had gathered the waters of the flood. Thebottom of the trench was torn up some twenty inches, uncovering the ventof a spring of purest crystal water, which shot up into the air in acolumn and, falling in a fanlike spray, went babbling down the grade intothe noxious brook. Looking across the dead-line, we beheld with wonderingeyes and grateful hearts the fountain spring.

But our relief was not yet realized; the question which now concerned uswas how to bring its cooling waters within reach of our lips. In theafternoon[Pg 70] and evening of that eventful Friday we prayed that God would soturn the heart of Capt. Wirtz that he would allow the precious water to beconveyed within our lines. We waited in suspense for the answer, and onSaturday morning, to our delight, we saw the quartermaster again enter thegate with a gang of slaves, bringing fence boards, hammers, nails, axesand stakes. A double row of the latter was driven, so that the directioncrossed the dead-line at a slight angle down the hill. A strip was nailedacross each pair of stakes, and in the aperture rested a trough made oftwo fence boards nailed together. At the lower end of this chute in anexcavation was set a sugar hogshead, around which clay was tamped so as toaid in making it watertight. When all was ready the upper end of the chutewas thrust under the falling column of water, which swiftly ran down andfilled to overflowing the large barrel. From this the men by crowds dippedfreely of the refreshing, life-giving water.

Laughter, songs and thanksgiving[Pg 71] abounded. Thus was wrought before oureyes a gracious work of Providence which to many of us was quite aswonderful and quite as manifestly the work of the All-Father as was thesmitten rock in the Palestine desert from which the thirst of the faintinghosts of Israel was slacked in their desert wanderings.

CHAPTER VII.

A profound conviction has been cherished by many that the unsealing ofProvidence Spring was as marked an interposition of the hand of theAlmighty as that recorded in the Book of Numbers where it is said, “AndMoses lifted up his hand, and smote the rock with his rod twice; and watercame forth abundantly and the congregation drank.” Num. 20:11.

Are they wrong in this conviction? The unwontedness of the incident admitsof no dispute. In such a sober work as Rhodes History of the UnitedStates, we have the statement, “After a severe storm a spring broke outwithin the enclosure (Andersonville stockade) and this became one of themain reliances for drinking water.” Vol. V., p. 492.

[Pg 73]An eye witness records: “About the first of August showers fell that beatanything I ever saw. There was one good result, for where the stockade waswashed away on the north side, it opened a spring of pure water, enough tosupply nearly the whole of the prison.” (The narrative of Amos E. Stearns,Co. A, 25th Regiment, Mass. Published by Franklin Pierce, 1887.)

While comparatively few of the prisoners knew of the days of prayer thatpreceded the storm, every one recognized that something out of theordinary course of events had happened; and that a new spirit pervaded thecamp. Before this, no one would give a dying man a drink, for water wasscarce, and the scurvy in the recipient’s mouth might contaminate the cupfor its owner. And indeed, not many had the strength to wait upon others.But now the dull, sombre, despairing mood was changed. The little streamof pure water, contrasted with the former slough that supplied us,murmured sweetly down through the night, and during the[Pg 74] day itover-brimmed thousands of cups that eager hands reached forth.

In after days many of these men were gathered at Camp Chase, Ohio, andthere detained until improved health rendered them presentable for returnhome.

We recall that when in the chapel of that place a Capt. Allen conductedevening religious services, hundreds of testimonies were given to theeffect that the breaking out of the spring at Andersonville was a distinctanswer to prayer and a convincing fact of the reality of help coming fromabove. Many of the speakers declared that their Christian faith began fromthat occurrence.

Questions such as the following naturally arise: Was Providence Spring amiracle? Would the saving relief have been withheld if prayer had not beenoffered?

The situation is not more difficult of analysis than is that described inthe story of Queen Esther where is exhibited the interplay of natural andsupernatural elements in human activity and[Pg 75] Divine over-ruling. Thenorthern section of the Andersonville inclosure was mainly a bank of clay,as evidenced by the many wells which were partially sunk, but filled, byorder of Capt. Wirtz, because tunnels therefrom were dug for escape. Thevein of water which issued in Providence Spring doubtless flowed from timeimmemorial, and being unable to work upward through a too great overpressof clay, had found a lower seam through which it seeped into the depths ofthe swamp below. This implied fact was learned as follows: As the prisonadministration was unable to cook meal and bacon for the increasingthousands of men, these articles were issued raw for two weeks alternatelyto the north and south sides of the enclosure.

A distressingly small lot of wood must suffice a detachment of two hundredand seventy men for three days. Often the individual portion would notmake a fire that would scald, much less cook, the scant portion ofcornmeal, which was sometimes coarse and unbolted. It was[Pg 76] said that morethan ten thousand cases of bloody dysentery prevailed at one time;aggravated by irritation to stomach and intestines from the practicallyuncooked food. The awful unsanitary conditions which prevailed can bedescribed, but respect for the sensibilities of the reader forbids.Suffice it to say that the need for fuel was urgent, that a number of thestronger captives would lay aside their tattered remnants of clothing,wade into the slimy muck of the swamp, and, sinking to their armpits,would pull up fragments of wood that had long been submerged. This wasmostly pitch pine and when broken up would quickly burn. The work ofexhuming fuel under such repulsive conditions was chiefly done at night.

It was noticed that in the morning the partially remaining foot-prints anddepression, from which the stick had been drawn, were filled with clearwater. This fact was a mystery until after the spring was opened; then theconclusion was reached that the spring water followed a deep seam in theclay and oozed[Pg 77] into the swamp some distance below the surface and rose upthrough the openings made by the wood-diggers.

Therefore Providence Spring was not especially created to order. LikeTopsy, it had “allus” been. The providential aspects of the case may bethus stated; the spring existed, but was unknown. It was located under thespace between the dead-line and the stockade, through which digging for awell was not permitted; it therefore remained undiscovered. Theout-of-plumb position of the stockade timbers had existed for a long time,but was not noticed by the officials until the time when prayer began tobe offered for water. As the petitions of Esther and Mordecai, unknown tothe King, in a manner unseen affected his action, so by analogy, theprayer of Sergeant Shepard and his colleagues influenced the state of mindof the quartermaster and of Commandant Wirtz and they were moved to therepairing of the stockade which had long been neglected.

This decision led to the forming of a broad trench by digging away the[Pg 78]ground to afford the needed watershed from the base of the stockade.

Thus a channel was formed which gathered the storm-water with forcesufficient to tear away the ground over the spring and release thelife-giving fountain. The slaves removed quite a depth of the earthdirectly over the unknown reservoir; thus the deepest part of the trenchwas brought so near the spring that the rush of the storm-flow could dothe rest.

The spring water was uncovered and its pressure was sufficient to throw itinto the air. However, as it was located on the forbidden margin, anyprisoner reaching under or over the dead-line for a draught of the waterwould be instantly shot by the sentinel posted overhead on the wall.

Hence, after the spring was opened an object of much desire, and suitableas a subject of prayer, was that the hardness of Capt. Wirtz would berelaxed to the extent of allowing the prisoners to have access to thewater. This result[Pg 79] was accomplished and the relief was complete.

A recent writer commenting on the development of Providence Spring refersto the marble fountain erected by the Ex-Prisoners of War Associationinside the granite pavilion built over the spring by the Woman’s ReliefCorps, remarks, “The waters flow strong and sweet with a never-ceasingstream into the marble basin. It is said to be the best water in allGeorgia; that which gushes forth from the side of the little hill inAndersonville.” Confirmatory to this statement is the following incident:

In 1896, when the writer lectured in Warsaw, N. Y., on “Reminiscences ofBattle-fields and Prisons,” a prominent war veteran of the town, who hadbeen a member of the staff of General Grant, showed him a bottle of waterfrom Providence Spring which nine years before had been hermeticallysealed by the Rev. G. Stanley Lathrop of Atlanta. So pure was the contentthat no sediment existed.

The further comment is: “The scientific fact of Providence Spring is that[Pg 80]in the August electrical storm the rocks (clay) which held back thisspring were cracked or broken open by a lightning bolt and the watersgushed forth. No one ever believed that it was a sort of Mosesintervention for the prisoners, but it was undoubtedly looked upon in thatlight by the poor, thirsty, half-starved prisoners.”

To which we reply that if we believe in prayer as an instrumentality bywhich human and divine forces cooperate to a beneficent end, and theresult takes place, why should we question the efficacy of intercession?

The fact that a number of believing men in the prison were engaged forsome days in protracted prayer for relief from water-famine was notostentatiously announced at the time, and was little noticed by the crowd.Thus has it ever been with the origin of great spiritual movements.

The relief came and a new spirit of hope and gladness, such as prevailingprayer engenders, swept through the multitude.

[Pg 81]The scientific fact of a mightly rain storm being the visible agency ofcompleting the opening of Providence Spring fitly coordinates with themoral force of prayer, as in numberless instances such convergence occursin history. Nevertheless, this explanation will probably be accepted orchallenged according to the personal experience of the reader in mattersof Christian faith.

In the case of the smitten rock of the Palestine desert water doubtlessexisted in an abundant, although unknown supply. The Almighty, by theagency of Moses, brought it forth for the satisfying of a great multitude.

The prophet was commanded to speak to the rock and it would give forthwater. The response could be from none other than the Creator of allmountains and flowing streams. And although Moses went beyond the Divinecommand, and struck with a rod instead of speaking with his voice, yet theDivine goodness was not withheld, “and the water came abundantly.” So atAndersonville the sufficient, though unknown,[Pg 82] supply was close at hand.Human voices pleading for relief were answered by Him who spoke by thewind, the lightning and the flood.

It is said that the spiritual desires of our hearts are the reflection ofwhat God is waiting to do for us through our own co-operation. Surelythen, the prayers of the Andersonville prisoners for water were incited byHim who saw their dire necessity, and who waited only for human hands toaid in the release of the fountain of water which his Omnipotence hadcreated.

During the subsequent years the writer has given the foregoing account inlectures and conversations to his comrades of the Grand Army of theRepublic and to many others. Gentlemen of scientific and Christianattainments have said that this explanation of the phenomenon ofProvidence Spring is the most satisfactory of any that they have heard.

The event here chronicled is commemorated by the erection on the spot of agranite pavilion which is[Pg 83]appropriately named “Providence Spring.” Theinscriptions are as follows:

This Fountain Erected by
The National Association of Union
Ex-Prisoners of War
In Memory of the 52,345 Comrades
who were confined here as prisoners of
war, and of
the 13,900 comrades buried in the
adjoining National Cemetery.
Dedicated Memorial Day,
May Thirteenth, Nineteen Hundred
and One.

James Atwell, National Commander.
S. M. Long, Adjt. Gen’l.
J. D. Walker, Cham. Ex. Committee.

This Pavilion Was Erected by the
Woman’s Relief Corps
Auxiliary to the Grand Army of the
Republic
In grateful memory of the men who
suffered and died in the
Confederate Prison at Andersonville,
Georgia,
From February, 1864, to April, 1865.

CHAPTER VIII.

[3]At a point on the Cape Fear river, about ten miles from Wilmington, N.C., a trainload of old Andersonville prisoners who had been confined alsoat Florence, S. C., and Salisbury, N. C., were delivered to General Terry.They had just been paroled at Goldsboro, and were received by him aboutthe middle of March, 1865. His headquarters was at a point on the CapeFear river and recently taken from the enemy. It was now held by the ThirdNew Hampshire, Sixteenth New York heavy artillery, and by a division ofcolored troops.

[Pg 86]The freight cars halted in a pine forest about a mile from this position,which commanded a pontoon bridge. A squad of cavalry received theex-prisoners, unfurling the Stars and Stripes in greeting. Many of theboys in blue wept, when they saw our plight. The released men tried tohurrah, but were too weak to raise much of a shout. Three ambulances wereloaded with as many of the sick as could be taken on the first trip.

At the farther end of the pontoon bridge the road led through a deep cutin the bank up to the open space of the camp where guns pointed over theriver towards the forest through which the freight train had come fromGoldsboro with the paroled men. Spanning this cut was an arch constructedof evergreen boughs and faced with the white[Pg 87] cloth square of sheltertent, upon which was spelled in letters made of evergreen sprigs, “THESIXTEENTH NEW YORK WELCOMES YOU HOME.”

The march of a mile from the railroad to the pontoon bridge greatlyexhausted the paroled prisoners. At first the excitement of once moregazing upon the flag they loved, and being received by the advancedsquadron, stimulated them to walk with some show of vigor.

But soon their eyes shone with the unwonted brightness of fatigue incontrast with their pinched and grimy faces. Many sank by the wayside, tobe picked up by the ambulance when the same could return for them.

The stronger ones worked up into the head of the column which crossed thepontoon bridge and the advance files of men undertook to walk up throughthe cut in the bank at the bridge end. But their feet sank in the sand andthey were too weak to go further.

Meanwhile a company of colored soldiers were drawn up through the cut intwo ranks facing. Between these[Pg 88] lines and under the arch our ambulancepassed; the horses tugging with might and main up the steep grade andthrough the deep sand. The white officers and the black soldiers stood at“Present Arms.” The eyes of the soldiers opened and their teeth gleamedwith an aspect of astonishment, as they for the first time beheld seasonedgraduates from a course of experiences in war-prisons. The living wrecksin the ambulances were still more pale and ghastly than were the strongerones following slowly on foot, and as the latter emerged from the woods onto the floating bridge, the onlooking crowd of our men off duty began tobe stirred with a great excitement.

As the ambulances lined up before headquarters, General Terry approached.With him were the brigade surgeon and a representative of the UnitedStates Christian Commission. The General looked upon us with tear-dimmedeyes; and turning to the surgeon gave his pocket flask, saying, “Doctor,for God’s sake, help these poor fellows.”

[Pg 89]This ambulance stopped on the crest of the hill, when the ChristianCommission man stepped to its side and said to the writer, “My boy, youwill get out here.” Seeing I was too weak to rise from the seat, he said,“Just lie across my shoulder.” This I did and he carried me into a near-bycountry church building which sheltered the sick until they could beconveyed by boat to Wilmington.

Meanwhile the straggling column of paroled prisoners had crossed thebridge. An officer undertook to form them into ranks so as to march inform under the arch and between the lines which stood at “Present arms.”Their feet sank in the soft sand of the cut, and after taking a few stepsthey were utterly exhausted. The officer in charge thus addressed the twolines: “Shoulder arms!” “Order arms!” “Stack arms!” “Break ranks and carrythese men up the hill!” With a mighty cheer the athletic colored soldierssprang forward and each picked up an emaciated, wilted prisoner, carriedhim up the hill, and[Pg 90] tenderly placed him on the ground. In due time, thesick were taken by boat to the Wright House Hospital, Wilmington, and thestronger ones were placed in a camp waiting transportation by steamer tothe north.

In the winter of 1875-76, the partially regained health of the writercollapsed, and he was advised to consult his former regimental surgeon,Dr. Wells B. Fox. The Doctor said, “You may live a good while, and you maynot. Prepare to leave your family in as good shape as possible. If youhave unsettled accounts fix them up.”

Pursuant to this advice, and needing the benefit of a climate warmer thana Michigan winter, he went to Washington to close up some army matters.Here he was received very kindly by Surgeon General Barnes, and by himordered to have a thorough examination by experts of the medicaldepartment. The diagnosis was more favorable than was deemed possible, andits correctness has been verified by the subsequent years.

On the journey from Cheboygan to[Pg 91] Washington, a stop was made atGreenville. With his host, a call was made on the Rev. James L. Patton,pastor of the Congregational Church of that place. As the evening passed,conversation turned to army happenings. After reciting some experiences inthe service of the United States Christian Commission, with an arousedmanner, Dr. Patton said, “I must tell you of an occasion that I shallnever forget. I was in the Christian Commission service outsideWilmington, North Carolina, near the close of the war, with General Terry,when he received the first installment of old Andersonville prisoners asthey were sent into our lines. Terry was all broken up over theircondition.” “Could the prisoners walk?” asked the writer. “Yes,” hereplied; “some of them could, but many had to be brought in onambulances.” He was asked, “Where did you put those who were sick?” “Welaid them on the floor of a little church that was close by,” Dr. Pattonreplied. Extending his hand the writer said, “Dr. Patton, thank you.”“Why, why,” he[Pg 92] replied hesitatingly, “you need not thank me for thestory; it is true and you are welcome to it.” “Yes,” was the response, “Ihave no doubt the story is true. I do not thank you for it, but forhelping me out of the ambulance at that time.” Need it be said that thesetwo men found themselves comrades, indeed?

CHAPTER IX.

A steamboat on the northeast branch of the Cape Fear river carried ourparoled men from the station held by General Terry to the city ofWilmington.

One of the principal mansions was owned by a Dr. Wright who had fled withhis family on the approach of the Union troops. His fine residence wasconverted into a hospital for the arrivals who were sick.

During the ride from Goldsboro on top of a freight car, the writer wastaken ill and was barely able to walk the steamer plank at the point oftransfer. After resting in the little country church he was taken to theWright House Hospital and assigned a straw bed on the floor of a room inthe third story. Soldier nurses proceeded to take off his infested prisonrags and to give him a sponge rub. He fainted under the[Pg 94]process and had arun of fever during which he was delirious.

When the point of death was apparently reached his vitality took a turnfor the better and he rapidly improved.

On the floor of his room were twelve narrow straw beds having a successionof occupants who, with a few exceptions, were soon transferred to theirfinal resting places.

Many of the ex-prisoners having died from the effects of the too early useof solid food, the physicians became extremely cautious and limited thesick to small quantities of the most simple preparations.

During the writer’s convalescence, his ravenous hunger was unsatisfied bythe slender allowance. It happened that his bed ended up to a window, andhis favorite occupation was to sit on his pillow and watch the proceedingsin the yard below. Here was a servant’s cottage occupied by two coloredwomen who evidently had excused themselves from flight with their master.The older one moved about with quiet dignity and[Pg 95] doubtless had been the“mamma” of the family. With evident pleasure she watched the new life andmovement around her, and held in restraint her young and vivaciouscompanion.

In the yard soldier cooks prepared in large kettles great quantities ofbeef soup, which was ladled into pails, carried to the kitchen and servedto the patients throughout the building.

A young artilleryman from Olean, New York, lay on a straw pallet alongsidethat of the writer. The one was called “Olean” and the other “Michigan.”From his post of observation at the window the latter, one morning,watched the handling of the soup below with an interest that could not beconcealed. “Say, Michigan, what are you looking at?” inquired Olean. “I amlooking at them pouring out the soup,” was the reply, “and say, Olean, Iwish I could have a good smell of it.”

“Smell of the soup,” said Olean contemptuously; “if I was a wishing I’dwish Ihad some and not just a smell.” Upon this sagacious remark, anumber[Pg 96] of the occupants of the other beds passed the wink or laugh with afeeble, hacking sound; their pinched faces brightening with a sense ofmirth.

The practical wisdom of the suggestion was not lost upon “Michigan,” whosaid, “If I was a little stronger I would take my cup, go down the stairsand into the yard and I would say, ‘Boys, I’m awfully hungry; please giveme some soup.’” Ah-ah-ah, laughed “Olean.” “Say, Michigan, I’ll bet youfive cents you can’t walk the length of your bed and touch the door knob.”Upon this challenge, the other patients from their pillows exchangedglances, several braced up on the elbow and discussed the possibility ofone of their number leaving his room without permission to forage forrefreshments. The concensus of opinion was that he could not succeed.

“Who are you talking to?” vigorously responded “Michigan.” “You think Ican’t do it; I’ll show you what I can do.” Grasping the projecting windowmoulding he helped himself to his feet, carefully balancing his tremblingsteps along[Pg 97] the narrow space between the beds on the floor, andtriumphantly grasping the knob of the door exclaimed, “There now, Olean;I’ve done it; I’ve done it. Where is your five cents?” “Oh, I haven’t anyfive cents,” replied Olean, “but say, Michigan, you would look mighty finegoing down those stairs, wouldn’t you?”

Thereupon the observing comrades laughed in great glee; in weakness, likelittle children, a very trifling incident amused them; they nodded theirheads at each other and exchanged approving glances.

Our regulation costume was a gray army shirt, drawers of like material,and a pair of socks. Thus appareled “Michigan” opened the door into thehall, peered over the railing down the two flights of stairs and, seeingthe coast clear, worked along to the newel post and carefully loweredhimself one or two steps.

Thinking discretion might be the better part of valor, he tested hisstrength for the return by trying to retrace the steps down which he hadcome. He was[Pg 98] quite unable to lift himself on the rising, so must needscontinue down the two flights, resting his weight on the rail. Dizzy andbreathless he stood by the stair post on the main floor. At this juncturethe hospital steward suddenly entered and was amazed to find a very weakpatient in a state of migration. “What are you doing here?” he hurriedlyand angrily asked. “What room do you belong to and who said you mightleave it?” “Oh, I’m just taking a little exercise,” was the reply. Thesteward rang for an attendant, and with an oath said, “No more of this; Iwill order a man to help you to your room and there you stay.”

But no helper appeared, so our hero summoned all his determination andwalked through the hall to the back porch. Here a stack of plain coffinsgreeted his view; and he fancied that one of them belonged to him. Goingdown the veranda steps he held to the rail and coming into the full raysof the sun turned faint and for a few minutes was helpless. Again, hesummoned[Pg 99] all the powers of his will and started down the gravel walktowards the servant’s cottage.

Reaching the porch of the same, he sank exhausted on the steps with headresting against the corner post. Just then the old “mamma” came out of herroom and caught sight of the wasted form and pale face of the would-besoup hunter. Gazing pityingly upon his emaciation, and speaking to herassistant, she exclaimed, “Dinah, Dinah, come yeah, come yeah; look at datar’ po’ white chile; he bleached so white as linen!”

Then addressing him, she said, “Wah yo’ come from? Wah yo’ come from?”“Oh, auntie,” he gasped, “I came out of the hospital to get some soup andI can’t get any further. Auntie, give me something to eat; I’m awfullyhungry!” “Dinah, Dinah,” she said. “Go to the cupboard and git a big sliceob de co’n pone; jes slip it undah you aprun and bring it yeah to me.”Passing the generous slice under her own apron, the old mammy stood by theveranda post, looking[Pg 100] the meanwhile intently at a distant object as ifoblivious to all near concerns.

Thus she partially screened the invalid from observation, and reaching theportion down to his hand, tenderly said, “Dar now, honey, yo eat datbread.” No second invitation to indulge his famished appetite was needed.The slice of “co’n pone” speedily disappeared. Strange to say, noinconvenience resulted. The food aroused the dormant vitality and theyoung fellow eagerly exclaimed, “Auntie, Auntie, that was so good. Give mesome more.” “No, honey,” she said decisively, “de doctah see me do disyah, I done go, suah.” Then the invalid began to cry hysterically. Thesympathy of the kind old heart was still further aroused and, spreadingher great hand on his head, she said softly, “Po chile, po chile, he wantta see he muddah.”

“Mother, Mother!” How that word stirred his heart and aroused his memoryso weakened by suffering. Physical vigor from the dark hand upon his[Pg 101] headwas surcharged with vitality that probably stimulated the depletedpersonality.

Again the young man asked, “Aunty, aunty, give me some more,” and againcame the reply, “No, honey, de doctah see me do dis, he send me off forsuah.” Meanwhile “Olean” was pressing his face against the third-storywindow to see how “Michigan” was prospering in his quest for soup.

A soldier nurse approached the cottage and “aunty,” who seemed to be ongood terms with all, interceded for her guest. “Dis ya chile done cum downfo a wok; he done tiad out, yo’ help him back, won’t yo’, massa?” And hedid.

“Dinah, Dinah, look at dat ar po’ white chile; he bleached so white as linen.”

CHAPTER X.

At the age of thirteen, the writer attended a series of religious meetingsand became profoundly convicted of his obligation to accept Jesus Christas his personal Savior. Lack of moral courage held him back from an openconfession. He compromised by secretly pledging to become a Christianafter he had entered upon his chosen profession of law. Thereupon hisconvictions ceased and the matter was forgotten.

Now, in his illness in Andersonville prison, answer to prayer, asevidenced in the instance of Providence Spring, turned his attention tohis own moral necessities. Well might this introspection occur; for, inthis month of August, 1864, his prospects of surviving the surroundingconditions were swiftly diminishing. Blood poisoning, in the form ofscurvy, had settled in his face. He[Pg 104]tottered from weakness. His long daysand weary nights were spent on his blanket, spread on the ground, justwithin the little shelter tent that was wedged in among others. When eyeswere closed to awful sights, the ears must listen to dreadful sounds. Asvitality was ebbing away, and the things of time and sense werewithdrawing, the realities of eternity seemed to come to the front. Trulyit was time to “prepare to meet thy God.” This must be done at once. Thereading of the little pocket testament began anew, and the thought wasawakened to pray for self; when suddenly there came to mind the forgottencovenant of seven years ago, “I will be a Christianafter I become alawyer.”

The obvious conclusion was, “Taken on your own terms, as you cannot be alawyer, you cannot be a Christian.” Total physical and mental weaknesscould not cope with this mental suggestion. The reflections that followedled to feelings of utter despair. Thus he soliloquized, “In the day of mystrength I said ‘No’ to God; now, in the hour of[Pg 105] my weakness, he will nothear me. He knows that from fear and not from sincerity I now seek topray. Hypocritical prayer will but add insult to injury. I must not pray.”These confused reasonings were largely due to an anemic brain and mentaltemptation. The weakened mind accepted a lie in place of the invigoratingtruth that “now is the day of salvation.” Eternity seemed to open itsportals to a realm of darkness into which the soul was being forced by thestress of its own past decision, while high over these gates enthroned inlight appeared the radiant form of the Son of God. While this Personageseemed unspeakably lovely and “chief among ten thousand,” the soliloquizersaid, “He has been denied, he is lost to me.” These cogitations filled thewaking and sleeping hours of several nights. With a sense of woeunutterable the decision of doom was accepted. The sensations of a lostsoul seemed to be real. Words are entirely inadequate to express the senseof eternal, irremediable loss by which the heart was oppressed. Thisexhaustive[Pg 106] strain could not long continue. The evening of a day ofunusually oppressive heat presaged the end. Vividly the thought stoodbefore the mind, “This is my last night on earth.” To the comrade who wasblanket-mate the home address was given and a whispered good-bye. This wasthe fully accepted close of life.

Sinking into an unrestful slumber, the small hours of the morning arrived,and a forgotten incident of the long ago was revived in a dream. The scenein vision occurred on a beautiful Sunday morning of spring, eleven yearsbefore. The location was a village on the old Ridge road in Niagaracounty, New York. The region was, and is, noted for its orchards ofdeciduous fruits. On this date the blossoms were out in full. Banks ofpink and white embosomed the homesteads that lined the historic highway;sweet odors filled the air, and bevies of bees with droning song wereindustriously gathering the abundant nectar. Nothing could surpass thebeauty of that quiet Lord’s Day morning[Pg 107] as the family, consisting offather, mother, older sister and younger brother, with the lad, wended itsway to the brick church of the village. They habitually passed, on theoutskirts of the same, the stone house of Col. N——, whose daughter’shusband was absent in the West.

The good lady taught in the Sunday school a class of boys who were fromseven to ten years of age, and although they were possessed ofirrepressible juvenile energy, and occasionally, to her distress, seemedto be irreverent; yet they regarded her with sincere respect and gavewilling obedience.

On the Saturday night, preceding this Sunday morning, a great burden ofsolicitude for the safety of her husband was suddenly pressed in upon hermind. To her imagination he seemed to be in extreme peril; perhaps he wasunattended; he might be alone and facing a speedy and fatal termination.Possessing a strong faith in God, and believing his readiness to hear andanswer prayer, at midnight she aroused from her bed[Pg 108] and engaged in anirrepressible travail of soul for the far-away loved one. For severalhours the burden of intercession continued. With the coming of the Sundaymorning dawn, the light which made all nature bright and beautiful wassuddenly duplicated in her heart. All at once the burden lifted.Instantaneously her being was filled with the sweet assurance that all waswell with her husband; that whatever was his danger he was being savedtherefrom. A tender gratitude possessed her heart. A sense of union withthe mighty Jehovah suffused her being with a consciousness of strength andresource. Like Deborah of old a song of triumph arose in her soul.

As the time of going to church approached, the above mentioned family camealong, and, as was their custom, the teacher and her son, who was aboutthe age of the writer, joined them on the way to the sanctuary. As theothers were conversing by the way, the two boys ran on ahead and the one,having observed on the face of his teacher the marks of suffering, said tohis chum,[Pg 109] “Newton, what is the matter with your mamma?”

“O, Johnny,” was the reply; “My mamma has been feeling awful bad about mypapa. I guess she thinks he is going to die, for in the night I heard hertalking and talking to God about saving him and making him well. Say,Johnny, if God don’t do what mamma asks I won’t have any papa, will I?”

With their hands joined in a common sympathy, and with mutual tears, thetwo lads sorrowed for a brief moment. But what parental anxiety could holdtheir abounding life from immediate sympathy with nature smiling allaround? By the time the church was reached and cheery salutations had beenexchanged with arriving classmates, all impressions of grief wereforgotten.

The teacher, in a mood of chastened gladness and confidence, listened tothe sermon which the venerable pastor extended to an unusual length. Thisdelay absorbed the brief period of time usually given to an intermission,during which the intermediates might[Pg 110] straighten out the kinks whichseemed to form in their lithe limbs while perched on cushioned seats sohigh that their feet dangled short of the carpet.

The good superintendent, whose gracious face and form are remembered asbut of yesterday, called the school to order immediately after thebenediction was pronounced. “We are late,” he said, “and cannot haveintermission today; classes take their places at once.”

These irrepressible youngsters combined the movement of filing into thepew with motions not included in the regular order. One punched another.The lad who had recently shared the mental distress of his mother nowinserted a bent pin under the descending form of his companion; resultingin a response that did not improve the discipline of the occasion. Theboisterous impulse seized the entire class to the annoyance anddiscomfiture of the teacher, who was seated at their front in theadjoining pew. Several reproving glances directed towards the young[Pg 111]insurgents quieted them during the opening exercises.

After the vigil of prayer during much of the preceding night and theanswer of peace that had been given, we can readily understand the stateof mind which now possessed the teacher. The transient, sportive disorderof the little boys was but a harmless ripple on the surface of herthought. Her soul was in a continued attitude of prayer. Her victory inintercession made easy a renewal of request at the throne of grace. Notonly her mother-heart but her Christian love yearned over the lads thatwere committed to her care. Not the surface question of behavior, but theissue of their conversion to Jesus Christ took possession of her mind. Shethought to herself, “Why not now? Why not now?” Attracting the attentionof the lads by tapping on the pew-top with her ivory-mounted fan, withcountenance expressing unwonted strength, she said, “My boys, I want youto now be perfectly quiet, and to bow[Pg 112] your heads and close your eyeswhile I pray for you.”

The spirit of quiet firmness which accompanied these words, theoutreaching of her soul as in the interceding exercise of the previousnight, profoundly impressed the lads. Instantly and willingly, they tookthe attitude of reverence; motionless they listened to the tender voicethat pleaded in words like these: “O Lord, my heavenly Father, I ask Theeto help my little boys to give their hearts to Thee. Wilt Thou not, by thesacrifice of thy dear Son, cleanse their hearts from sin. Wilt Thou giveto them a new heart, a clean heart? Bestow upon them freely of Thy HolySpirit, and help them to live always for Thee. Amen.”

Although eleven years had passed away, and the immature experiences ofboyhood had been replaced by the opening realities of manhood, the eventsabove described formed the subject-matter of the dream on that memorablenight in Andersonville. The panorama of what was largely forgottenunfolded[Pg 113] before the mind in what was supposed to be the sleep ofapproaching death. These renewed impressions were so vivid that at theinstant of awaking the reality seemed to be with the old-time home; thedream was the being in the prison pen.

But a few moments of consciousness were required for the recognition ofthe actual circumstances of the present time and place.

But, within, all was changed. In the place of despair an inspiring hopewas in the ascendant. The forms and voices of loved ones had been seen andheard. The intercession of the teacher for her little boys had restoredthe right to pray. While yet in much physical weakness the day was mostlypassed in silent prayer.

During the second night a lessened impression of the dream was repeated.By the second morning all the processes of thought were restored to thenormal condition. The mind and will were able to adopt the irreversibledetermination to henceforth implicitly trust in the living[Pg 114] God and tolive the life of faith and prayer. And up to the present hour thatdetermination has sought to be unfalteringly kept.

“The mystic chord of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriotgrave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, willyet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they willbe, by better angels of our nature.”—Abraham Lincoln, Inaugural Address,March 4, 1861.

APPENDIX A.

Many narratives of experiences in the military prisons maintained by thegovernment of the Confederate States of America during the Civil War havebeen written by Union officers and soldiers confined therein. With minordifferences of statement arising from personal diversities thesetestimonies as a whole establish the fact of unprecedented suffering andmortality.

Since the close of the Civil War our government has unstintedly employedability and money in compiling and publishing an exhaustive exhibit of theUnion and Confederate records. These statistics and memoranda afford tothe later historian abundant and reliable data, and upon his calm verdictwe may rely for the substantial truth.

(The above figures are taken from a “History of the United States,” byJames Ford Rhodes, LL.D., Litt.D., who quotes from General F. C.Ainsworth, Chief of the Record and Pension Office.)

“We raise our father’s banner that it may bring back better blessings thanthose of old; ... that it may say to the sword, ‘Return to thy sheath,’and to the plow and sickle, ‘Go forth.’ That it may heal all jealousies,unite all policies, inspire a new national life, com-pact our strength,ennoble our national ambitions, and make this people great and strong, notfor aggression and quarrelsomeness, but for the peace of the world, givingto us the glorious prerogative of leading all nations to juster laws, tomore humane policies, to sincerer friendship, to rational, institutedcivil liberty, and to universal Christian brotherhood.”—Address of H. W.Beecher at Fort Sumpter flag raising, April 15, 1865.

APPENDIX B.

It is difficult, even after the lapse of years not a few, to considerdispassionately the treatment accorded by the Confederacy to herprisoners. War had fanned to a flame the fire of sectional animosity, anda spirit of retaliation was awakened. It is true the South wascomparatively a poor country, and the hand of war had stripped her bare.The mighty armies of both sides carried on their vast operations onsouthern soil; the one as an army of defense, the other as an army ofinvasion.

In the movements of strategy and battle, many combatants were takenprisoners; these were sent to the rear for safe keeping and maintenance.With practically unlimited resources this additional burden was scarcelyfelt at the North.

At the South, the case was different.[Pg 120] The extended territory occupied bythe armies was practically unproductive for the people. It was, therefore,inevitable that the prisoners of war share the general limitation. Astheir numbers increased, it was necessary that they be conveyed tolocalities beyond the reach of rescue. Their increasing hosts could notwait upon the size of the stockades built for their confinement, and thelimited forces that could be spared for their safe keeping must in someway hold them closely in hand.

Moreover, unfriendly prejudices were increasing by the very fact ofinvasion, and as the North was held responsible for the war, the prisonerswere the object of bitter hatred. In numerous minor particulars, such asample supply of water, of shelter and of food and fuel, the obligations ofthe southern military authorities were criminally negligent; yet many ofthe features of the prison circumstances were probably unavoidable.

The situation in the South is summed up in the following extract from “A[Pg 121]History of the American People,” by Woodrow Wilson, Ph.D., Litt.D., Vol.IV, pp. 306, 307:

One recollection has burned itself into memory. At Andersonville there wasa standing offer of immediate release to any prisoner of average strengthwho would take the oath of allegiance to the Confederacy and engage innon-combatant service. Officers who entered the prison with theseproposals were shunned by our men. I recall a recently naturalized Federalprisoner who thus enlisted. When he re-entered the prison in Confederateuniform as a recruiting officer, his reception was such that he fled tothe gate for his life; shouting to the guard to protect him. For flag andcountry our boys could uncomplainingly die a lingering death, but theycould not turn traitor.

APPENDIX C.

Among the heroisms of the great Civil War none surpassed theself-sacrificing devotion manifested by the women of the North and of theSouth. The latter are represented by an organization known as “TheDaughters of the Confederacy,” within whose associations are kept aliveardent memories of heroic days.

The former have wrought enduring deeds of patriotism and of mercy, chieflyin co-operation with the Grand Army of the Republic. The work of theWoman’s Relief Corps in securing and improving the Andersonville prisongrounds constitutes an imperishable memorial to their patriotic devotion.

To the energy and executive ability of Mrs. Lizabeth A. Turner, Chairmanof the Andersonville Prison Board, is due in large measure the completesuccess[Pg 124] attending the movement to gain possession of and to beautify thesite and surroundings of the historic Andersonville prison.

The following letter written two years before the decease of Mrs. Turnerexplains in her own vigorous expressions how these great results weresecured:

“Woman’s Headquarters Relief Corps, (Auxiliary to the Grand Army of theRepublic.) 46 Camp Street, New Britain, Conn., October 14, 1905.”

Dear Comrade: Some fifteen years ago the Department of Georgia, G. A. R.,considered the idea of buying the Andersonville prison pen and holding itin memory of the men who there died for the preservation of the Union.

The committee bought all the land the owners would release and hoped toraise through the Northern posts and their friends a permanent fund forthe care of the grounds.

The plan proved a failure. The G. A. R. in the South is very poor. Itsmembers are mostly colored men who[Pg 125] are able to make little more thantheir living.

On the property was a mortgage of about $750, which was paid by theWoman’s Relief Corps, but money for the care of the place was lacking. Thegrounds were then offered to the United States Government on the conditionof providing perpetual care. As Andersonville is not a battlefield, theauthorities declined the proposition.

On two occasions a like proposal was made to the National G. A. R.Encampment, but these veterans decided that the time is not far distantwhen they can care only for themselves.

With better success the responsibility was tendered to the Woman’s ReliefCorps, which felt that if there is a place on God’s earth that should beheld sacred, it is that prison pen. The officials accepted the obligation,trusting to woman’s patriotism for support and care, and they have nottrusted in vain.

The adage that “God helps those who help themselves” has been true in ourcase. When we accepted the sacred[Pg 126] trust and looked the ground over, Ifound a large corner of the original pen and three forts we did not own.We bought the extra grounds and the forts, paying for them several hundreddollars more than they were worth. We ventured for all or nothing—andall it was.

This occurred in 1895, and in that year I was elected President of the W.R. C. At the convention we raised by personal contributions $700 as abeginning.

During several years each member was asked to give from three to fivecents; some responding, others refusing. Now all bills are paid from thegeneral fund of the National organization.

We own eighty-eight and one-half acres of land, including the seven forts;all the earthworks and rifle pits; also the wells dug by the men in tryingto reach water. These are in as perfect condition as when the war closed.

Not a well has caved in or a fort changed in shape. That hard, red clayseems as unyielding as stone.

[Pg 127]The grounds are inclosed with a high wire fence and suitable gates. Roadsare laid out and bridges built over the creek. Bermuda grass roots plantedon the north side will make an even lawn.

Grass seed for a sward will not germinate in that soil. We have built overProvidence Spring a stone pavilion, also a nine-room house, wellfurnished, and after the northern home pattern.

We also have a barn, a henyard, a good mule and all kinds of work toolsfor such a place.

We engage an old veteran and his wife as caretakers. From a pole 116 feethigh floats in the air every day the flag those heroes died to save. Atour last convention we voted to build a windmill the coming winter.

Last fall we set out 300 roses and this autumn will add 200 more. We havealso set out 150 four-year-old pecan trees that are from 10 to 15 feethigh. They do finely in that soil and when from ten to twelve years oldwill bear a paying crop. A freeze does not affect[Pg 128] them and they aremarketable without decaying.

Ohio, Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Michigan have put up beautifulmonuments in the prison pen. Wisconsin will have hers ready to dedicate onnext Memorial Day.

Pennsylvania, Iowa and Maine have placed monuments in the cemetery. Allthis has been done through the work of the W. R. C.

While I believe the prison pen is theonly place for the monuments, I amthankful to have any State remember their Andersonville men wherever theythink best.

“Death Before Dishonor” is the motto on all the monuments within theprison grounds.

Last year we had markers put down on all the places of special interest;also on the stockade and dead lines. Trees have grown upthrough theforts forty feet high and are more than two feet through.

The W. R. C. has started a fund for the perpetual care of the Prison Pen[Pg 129]Park. We began last year and have already $3,000 in the fund. The yearlyincome is to be added to the principal, and none to be used until theproceeds are sufficient to support the place.

We are to set aside annuallynot less than $1,000 for the increase ofthe fund, besides caring for current expenses.

You will, I am sure, be much interested in the situation. I have beenChairman of the Board from the beginning and hope to live long enough tosee sufficient money set aside to care for the placeforever.

Mrs. Turner served as President of the Woman’s Relief Corps, Auxiliary tothe Grand Army of the Republic, and was appointed by her compeers as LifeChairman of the Andersonville Prison Board. Her death occurred atAndersonville on April 27, 1907.

[Pg 130]A monument suitable to her memory, erected by the Woman’s Relief Corps,adorns the prison grounds for which she spared not her life to preserveand beautify.

From the Annual Address of Mrs. Fanny E. Minot, President of the Woman’sNational Relief Corps, at the Twenty-third Annual Convention, 1905:

“In March it was my privilege, in company with Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Winansand Mrs. Kate E. Jones, to visit Prison Park at Andersonville. As I walkedthrough the grounds and read and pondered on the suffering there endured,it seemed, indeed, a hallowed spot. Just beyond is the National Cemetery,in whose broad trenches are interred more soldiers in one group than uponany battlefield on the face of the globe. A whole army perished ratherthan deny the country which gave them birth! The bravery of the men atThermopylae has been the theme of song and story; but they fought in theshadows of their soul-inspiring mountains, while these men, removed fromthe activities[Pg 131] of war, the flash of arms, the long array of men eager forthe contest, dragged out a miserable existence till death came to theirrelief. If ever men were loyal, true and brave, whose names should beinscribed on honor’s roll, it was these.”

“How fitting that the magic touch of woman should consecrate this prisonpen and make it a prison park! Only patient, persistent effort has madethe change possible; for the soil is unresponsive, and tangled vines andunderbrush had run riot for many years. But on this visit we found thegrounds suitably enclosed, the Bermuda grass taking root, the moats andcreek cleared of the vines and the conopy erected over that wonderfulProvidence Spring. The house erected for the caretaker much exceeded myexpectations for comfort and convenience. Honeysuckles and roses clamberedover the porch, and the rose garden, planned by Mrs. Turner, gave[Pg 132] promiseof beauty and fragrance where formerly had been barrenness and foul odors.On these grounds Ohio has raised a beautiful granite shaft, Massachusettshas placed a substantial monument near by, Rhode Island has honored herdead in bronze and stone, and last Memorial Day the Governor of Michigancame with friends to dedicate with appropriate ceremonies a monument tothe brave sons of that State. Wisconsin has selected a site near the spotwhere some of her men encamped; and other States are planning to erectmonuments, but wish first to be assured that the park will have permanentcare.”

APPENDIX D.

By Rev. H. H. Proctor, D.D., of Atlanta, Ga., in The Congregationalist ofMay 2, 1905.

“The thirtieth of May is sacred to the nation. With its return the heartof the country instinctively turns to those eighty-three nationalcemeteries, mostly on Southern soil, where in 194,492 known and 151,710unknown graves lie 346,202 men who fell fighting for the flag. And in allthe land, fittingly enough, there are no spots more beautiful than these.For their care and improvement the national government spends $100,000 ayear.

The cemetery at Andersonville, Ga., gains additional interest in view ofthe famous prison connected with it. Of these I wish to speak. No one canspend a day there, as I did lately, without drinking deep of the patrioticspirit.[Pg 136] The very ground on which you stand seems holy, when you think howbrave men suffered and died there. The very air seems charged with theirspirit still.

Some disappointment is felt when over one hundred miles south of Atlantayou get off at a little station, with a few straggling houses here andthere. But in the distance, a mile away, the national flag wavinginvitingly bids reassurance. At length you stand at the entrance of thecemetery, entering through the strong iron gates of the thick ivy-coveredbrick wall, 12,782 known and 923 unknown men are buried within.

Many things at once interest you. Walks lead to every part of the grounds.Trees, shrubbery and flowers enhance the natural beauty of the place.Feathered songers of the South chant daily requiems. Each grave is markedby a white marble headstone, on which is generally carved the number,rank, name and state of the dead soldier. Here and there we read the sadinscription, “Unknown.” The white stones contrasting with the finegreensward under the soft[Pg 137] Southern sky make an impressive scene. This isespecially true in that part of the grounds where stands the splendidmonument of New Jersey, as shown by the accompanying illustration.

In a convenient place there is located an octagonal rostrum, where everyMemorial Day gathers a large concourse of people to pay homage to thesacred dead. After the exercises the most impressive act of all follows.Each grave, officers or private, white or black, known or unknown, isdecorated with a miniature flag. And what a transformation! Instead of themonotonous rows of bare white stone a field of flags, by the magic ofloving remembrance, appears!

But as impressive as is this cemetery, more impressive still to me was theprison. It is only a few rods away. Its notoriety is universal. Blaine, inhis memorable speech in Congress, immortalized its more than Siberianhorrors.

Some of the posts of the old stockade fence, survivors of that dreadprison will be interested to know, still stand. There, within a space ofthirteen acres,[Pg 138] 52,345 men, the very flower of the Republic, were kept ina pen. For thirteen months they were exposed in that rude stockade to theheat in summer and the cold in winter, to blistering sun and chillingblasts. From cruelty and exposure, hunger and thirst, disease and dirt,they died like sheep. Every fourth man died!

The story of “Providence Spring” is universally familiar. It proves thatGod is yet with men as of old. The water supply for these thousands inthat small space consisted of but one little brook which of course soonbecame unspeakably foul. In their thirst they cried unto God for water. Hewho hears the cry of the raven could not be dumb to the prayer of thesuffering soldier. It was night. Soon the sky was overcast with clouds,the lightnings flashed, the thunders rolled, and a great rain came thatnight. Next morning a fountain of living water sparkled in God’s sunshinenear where the devout soldier had knelt in prayer the night before.

In recognition of God’s providential[Pg 139] gift they christened it “ProvidenceSpring.” Today a pavilion of stone, erected by the Woman’s National ReliefCorps, commemorates the spot. Two significant utterances are carved onmarble tablets in the pavilion. On one we read these words: “Theprisoner’s cry of thirst rang up to heaven. God heard and with histhunders cleft the earth, and poured forth his sweetest waters gushinghere.” Over the fountain, which has never ceased from that day to this,carved in Georgia marble are the great words of that great man in whosebig soul the nation was born again: “With charity to all and malice towardnone.”

As I stood by this spot and looked up on the hill I felt a new love ofcountry stir within my heart. I could but say in my heart I would ratherbe a plain American citizen, though black, than a knighted Roman underCæsar.

As we think of that prison we are thankful for the cemetery. The prisontypifies suffering. The cemetery is the symbol of peace. Through thatgateway[Pg 140] of suffering our martyrs entered into peace. How typical of thenation! Through the crucible of suffering it entered into peace.”

APPENDIX E.

The magnanimity which dictated the terms of surrender at Appomattox wastypical of the treatment extended by the Government of the United Statesto its defeated opponents. Well might this be so. The sinews of strengthof the mighty North had through the four years of desperate conflict grownstrong indeed.

A Confederate Major General declared that the veterans of GeneralSherman’s army, pushing their winter way through the swamps and rivers ofthe South; foraging widely for subsistance and always ready to fight,illustrated a type of soldier that the world had not seen since the daysof Julius Cæsar.

The final parade of the Union army along Pennsylvania avenue before the[Pg 142]President, the Cabinet, prominent Generals and notables of other nations,displayed a vast procession of seasoned veterans whose effectiveness hadnever been surpassed. They were the choice, steel-tempered residue of morethan two millions of citizen soldiery who had enlisted to preserve theunion of States, “one and inseparable,” against the folly of secession.

In the plentitude of their invincible strength, nursing no lust of power,they disbanded to peaceful homes from whence they came; subsiding fromtheir regnant military life as the mighty storm-waves of the ocean sinkaway into pacific calm.

Apart from wide-spread personal bereavement the North bore no seriousscars of war. The perfection of agricultural machinery enabled richharvests to be gathered in season notwithstanding the dearth of farm helpwhich had gone to the army. Factories of every kind were, with largeprofits, turning out abundantly all sorts of goods. Our commerce with theworld was unhindered,[Pg 143] save by the eccentric raids of the Alabama; themuscle and brawn of an ample labor immigration supplied the manual forcenecessary to national expansion; as illustrated in the building of thetrans-continental railroads. The huge war debt instead of being felt as anincubus was but a process of turning into ready cash the prosperity of thefuture.

Contrast with this picture the condition of the Southern States at theclose of the four dreadful years. Within a goodly portion of her bordersthe country was war-swept and harried by the consuming necessities of vastarmies of both friend and foe; for hungry men and beasts on the march andin the fight must subsist largely upon the supplies which the foragersgather from the adjacent regions.

Manufacture, as compared with the North, was a neglected art south ofMason’s and Dixon’s line.

The most extensive and effective naval blockade of history hermeticallysealed nearly every Southern port, thereby[Pg 144] hopelessly shutting in untoldwealth of cotton, the returns of which were otherwise available to everyneed.

No millions of stalwart immigrants reinforced Southern industry; on thecontrary her labor system and property tenure in human beings wereshattered in pieces.

The flower of her masculine youth perished; the prestige of rulingintelligence, culture and wealth was dethroned and, to crown herafflictions although she knew it not, the South lost her best and mostpowerful friend in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Then followed the agonies of political reconstruction and the ignobleinvasion of carpet-bag adventurers who, in many instances, were valiantonly for pelf.

Surviving this wide-spread chaos the South, for the most part, believed intheir lawful right of withdrawing from the Union. By many of their leadingminds this contention had been long held, and that conception ofgovernment doubtless had filtered down through all[Pg 145] classes of society sofar as thought was developed on the subject.

The defense of State rights probably was a more powerful incentive tocivil war than was at first the purpose to defend slavery.

The bravery of Southern soldiers has never been surpassed. Theself-sacrificing patriotism of Southern women reached the high-water mark.

The vitality and moral force of Southern chivalry was distinguished evenin the remarkable loyalty of the slaves.

If the foregoing briefly stated considerations form a truthfulpresentation of the case, why, it may be asked, may not the NationalGovernment expand the magninimity of President Lincoln and General Grantby engaging with Congress to erect monuments and other memorials to heroesof the army and navy of the Confederacy? The first step towards suchprocedure has already been taken in the form of proposed legislation atWashington.

We would not imply that the most eminent leaders of the Southern forces[Pg 146]were personally unworthy of posthumos honor.

On the contrary it is our privilege to bear testimony to the exaltedindividual worth, the consecrated devotion to country as they understoodthe duty, and the pre-eminent ability in action that characterized themost noted leaders of the Confederacy.

Nevertheless their relation to national history is determined, not byindividual excellencies, but by the fact that they rebelled against theGovernment they were sworn to defend. To the utmost they did all theycould to dismember the Union of which they were an integral part, todishonor the flag that emblazoned the glory of a common origin andhistory.

In the interest of perpetuating a far-reaching sentiment of loyalty tonational life and well-being we would strenuously deny the moral right ofCongress to make appropriations for the erection of memorials that aredesigned to crown Confederate valor with renown. If by privatesubscriptions[Pg 147] admirers wish to build monuments they undoubtedly will beallowed to do so.

Our Government has wisely extended high courtesies to prominent SouthernGenerals, and has on many occasions held out the olive branch of peace.But we must not forget that brotherly kindness and neighborly good-willcannot cancel the fact that the Southern conception of government by staterights, as against National sovereignty, meant the destruction of theNation as such and was so intended.

Had the war for the Union been a failure this fair continent on which hasbeen nourished the hopes of the world would have been the arena of twogeneral governments separated by no natural dividing lines and probably atlast to be succeeded by contending states and communities.

Thus the last condition of free civilization in America would have beenmore disgraceful than was the situation of the warring principalities ofancient Greece, because we had sinned against a greater light than theypossessed.

[Pg 148]If National monuments are dedicated to commemorate Southern gallantry willnot a subtle influence steadily flow out from these reminders of civil warto the effect that assault upon the Nation’s existence is an offense sotrivial as to be expiated by bravery on the field of battle?

Who can tell what crises of peril may in the future break in upon ourbeloved land? And what if the youth of the North and of the South are,from generation to generation, taught by the influence of public memorialsthat there is no real distinction between those who fought to save theNation and those who did all they could “that the government of thepeople, by the people, and for the people, shall (not) perish from theearth.”

We present a quotation from the judgment of the Supreme Court, as given byGeneral N. P. Chipman on page 503 of his recent and informing book onAndersonville:

The legal aspects of the case as thus expressed have their great value asindicating facts fundamental to organic National existence and theydemonstrate the inherent inconsistency of devoting Federal appropriationsto the erection of monuments to the honor of opponents of the Union. Thiscan be but a transient purpose which should[Pg 150] and, we believe will be,relinquished.

We close this narrative with the words of a departed soldier who was adevoted friend of General Lee and afterwards a trusted counsellor ofGeneral Grant, as recorded in the Memoirs of Gen. John B. Gordon, pp. 464,465:

“American youth in all sections should be taught to hold in perpetualremembrance all that was great and good on both sides; to comprehend theinherited convictions for which saintly women suffered and patriotic mendied; to recognize the unparalleled carnage as proof of unrivalledcourage; to appreciate the singular absence of personal animosity and thefrequent manifestation between those brave antagonists of agood-fellowship such as had never before been witnessed between hostilearmies. It will be a glorious day for our country when all the childrenwithin its borders shall learn that the four years of fratricidal warbetween the North and the South was waged by neither with criminal orunworthy intent, but by both to protect what they[Pg 151] conceived to bethreatened rights and imperiled liberty; that the issues which divided thesectionswere born when the Republic was born, and were forever buriedin an ocean of fraternal blood. We shall then see that, under God’sprovidence, every sheet of flame from the blazing rifles of the contendingarmies, every whizzing shell that tore through the forests at Shiloh andChancellorsville, every cannon-shot that shook Chickamauga’s hills orthundered around the heights of Gettysburg, and all the blood and thetears that were shed are yet to become contributions for the upbuilding ofAmerican manhood and for the future defense of American freedom. TheChristian Church received its baptism of pentecostal power as it emergedfrom the shadows of Calvary, and went forth to its world-wide work withgreater unity and a diviner purpose. So the Republic, rising from itsbaptism of blood with a national life more robust, a national union morecomplete, and a national influence ever[Pg 152] widening, shall go foreverforward in its benign mission to humanity.”

From the oldest to the youngest, let us all unite in the patrioticsalutation, “I pledge my allegiance to my flag and to the Republic forwhich it stands. One Nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice forall.”

[1] Toward the close of the war great bounties were paid for recruits innorthern cities. Many desperate characters enlisted for this money,intending to desert at the first opportunity. The vigilence of Genl. Grantforced them into battle. Many were captured and landed in Andersonville.Here they conspired to rob and murder fellow prisoners. Capt. Wirtzconvened a trial court composed of prisoners who observed all the forms oflaw in the trial of these desperadoes. Six of them were found guilty ofmurder and were hung.

[2] Market Square was a piece of made ground on the edge of the swamp inthe center of the prison. Here men came together to barter trinkets theyhad made to while away the time, to exchange parts of rations, and toindulge generally, so far as they could, in the Yankee instinct for trade.

[3] On February 20th, 1912, the writer received a call from an old friend,Rev. M. L. Holt, of Neligh, Nebraska. He gives this confirmatory statementto Mr. Maile: “As Sergeant Major of the Third New Hampshire VeteranVolunteer Infantry I can certify to the military surroundings at the placeof your release. Two days before your arrival from Goldsboro, GeneralTerry ordered our Third New Hampshire to make a forced march to a pointten miles distant from Wilmington on the Northeast branch of the Cape Fearriver and take from the enemy a pontoon bridge at that point.

“We skirmished with the foe nearly the entire distance and came up to themjust as they had cut the near end of the bridge from the bank. With ourmachine guns we drove them off and moored the bridge back to its place. Onthe second day after we received the old Andersonville prisoners and hadthe satisfaction of knowing we had prepared their way by having the bridgein readiness for them to cross the river into our lines. I shall neverforget the impression made upon us by the condition of these survivors ofConfederate prisons. These events occurred in March, 1861.”

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Chapter.		Page.
I.	The Writer’s Credentials	19
II.	View of a Confederate Prison	27
III.	The Prison Commisariat	35
IV.	A Dearth of Water	53
V.	A Cry to Heaven	61
VI.	Unsealing of the Spring	65
VII.	Was It a Miracle?	72
VIII.	Deliverance	85
IX.	An Incident by the Way	93
X.	A Sequel	103

Appendix.		Page.
A.	Contributory Testimony	116
B.	Responsibility for Prison Treatment	119
C.	Woman’s Relief Corps Memorial	123
D.	A Memorial Day Meditation Rev. H. H. Proctor, D. D. of Atlanta.	135
E.	Permanent Honors for Confederate Heroes	141